


Safe Words

by laurashapiro, obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of kitchen implements, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BDSM, Blowjobs, Caning, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Sadomasochism, South Downs, Sub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switching, Vanilla, Victorian era, a tiny bit of slut-shaming, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: It was Crowley, Crowley, finally inside him, after so many centuries of wanting. It was Crowley, making him tremble and then making him come. He had more than any angel -- any mortal -- could ever have dreamed of, and it was the worst kind of avarice to want for more.(And yet.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/OMC
Comments: 191
Kudos: 805
Collections: Hot Omens, Top Crowley Library





	Safe Words

Aziraphale was on his hands and knees on their firm, springy bed, the new mattress pushing back against his weight as Crowley plunged into him. Crowley’s cock filled him achingly, blissfully full with each thrust, nudging against his prostate, building a gorgeous tension inside him. Aziraphale’s heart and mouth were open, yearning even now. “Harder!” he pleaded.

Crowley’s fingers tightened on Aziraphale’s hips and he drove in more energetically, slightly faster. Aziraphale gasped and thrust back against Crowley as hard as he could. So close, so close to what he needed.

“Hurt me,” Aziraphale whispered.

  
  
“You what?” Crowley said, and he stopped moving just when things were getting so exciting.

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if Crowley had heard him, and didn’t believe what he’d heard -- or if he still had a way out of this.

  
  
“Hold me,” he said, reaching for Crowley’s arm and wrapping it around himself. Crowley rolled them over onto their sides so he could embrace Aziraphale, and Aziraphale felt the brush of his breath, his lips, at the back of his neck.

  
  
“I’ve got you, angel,” he murmured, all love and confidence, his corded arms tight around Aziraphale’s chest, one hand snaking down to pull at his cock. Aziraphale melted into Crowley’s strokes, letting Crowley do as he would. It was lovely, after all; it was more than lovely, it was more than he had ever hoped for, to be with Crowley this way. 

Crowley kissed him, scraping the edges of his teeth over the promontory of Aziraphale's uppermost vertebra, and the blunt drag of it, a distant cousin to pain, set Aziraphale's hips working a little faster, a little harder. Crowley was thick and unyielding inside him and Aziraphale leaned into it: the pressure of it and the ache. Oh, Crowley was always so careful with him, opening him languorously on four fingers until Aziraphale felt he could take the Queen Mary with nary a wince, but still. There was a burn to being fucked that never quite went away, and Aziraphale was endlessly grateful for it. 

When they first began, Crowley wouldn't even do this with him. He'd kissed as if the world were ending, and then urged Aziraphale's hand, every time, between his own thighs. At first, Aziraphale had simply assumed this was Crowley's preference -- and he was not, of course, averse. Even the opportunity to look at Crowley unclothed felt like the most colossal and unlikely cosmic prize. But then, when he had tried to encourage Crowley to take the dominant role, Crowley had balked, and Aziraphale had begun to wonder how much was preference, and how much self-sacrifice. Only when Crowley was sure that Aziraphale longed for this, to be taken, had he acquiesced; and only then with the breathless plea: "I don't wanna hurt you, angel." 

_ Hurt me,  _ Aziraphale thought.  _ Bruise me. Possess me.  _ But Crowley's face was set like flint and so Aziraphale said, instead, the right words:  _ you won't hurt me, my darling. I love you, and I love this. Please, my love; give this to me.  _

Crowley never could bear to see Aziraphale beg. 

And so, here they were. Crowley's thick cock churning inside him; Crowley's long fingers working him. Crowley's mouth on the back of his neck, reverent. Aziraphale  _ did  _ love it, he told himself sternly. It was Crowley,  _ Crowley,  _ finally inside him, after so many centuries of wanting. It was Crowley, making him tremble and then making him come. He had more than any angel -- any mortal -- could ever have dreamed of, and it was the worst kind of avarice to want for more. 

(And yet.)

\---

Their first kiss: a tipsy fumble on the doorstep of the bookshop, the day Aziraphale took a bath in Hell. They’d held each other, gasping, for hours afterward, silent with wonder. Aziraphale had imagined it so often and had always thought the words would pour out of him, the words he’d heard recited and had read and had rehearsed over and over in his mind and even, in moments of ridiculous self-indulgence, composed and then burnt -- everything Crowley was to him, everything he wanted to be to Crowley. But there had been almost no words that day. Aziraphale had been wholly consumed with joy and then rapt with pleasure, gratitude. Crowley...Crowley’s eyes so wide, breath catching in his throat, his groans. His tears.

Words had come later, bit by bit, but somehow never the right ones. “I love you, my darling,” Aziraphale told Crowley the second day when he woke up naked on the back room sofa and pressed into Aziraphale’s side. It seemed like it should have come first, but better late than never. Crowley had buried his face in Aziraphale’s throat, curled his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, and started them right up again. And what could have been better than that?

“It’s always been you,” Crowley said to him on the fourth day, kneeling down at Aziraphale’s feet in his spare grey flat. “Always. Since Eden.” Then he took Aziraphale’s cock into his deep, hot mouth. Aziraphale felt the luxurious wet heat and pressure and right alongside it, the perennial stab of guilt. He had known, of course, how long Crowley had wanted him. How long Crowley had waited. Part of him had always known. And now Crowley was on his knees to him.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sighed a week later, sliding out of the cradle of Crowley’s hips and watching his spend trickle over Crowley’s taut thighs.

“What for?” Crowley pulled him back into his arms, kissed him. “That was bloody lovely.”

Aziraphale gaped like a fish. He hadn’t planned to say it and had no idea what to say next. It had just happened. One moment he was embraced in the gorgeous slick heat of Crowley’s body, thundering with a monumental orgasm to the accompaniment of his beloved’s rapturous cries, and then an apology tumbled out of him like a limp little afterthought. Now what?

“I’m sorry I wasted so much time,” he said earnestly, yet with a tiny piece of him aching at what he withheld. He brushed Crowley’s hair back and pressed his lips to the quirked eyebrow. “When I think we could have been doing this for years…”

“Nah, it was worth it,” Crowley said, meeting his eyes. “And we couldn’t’ve. I know we couldn’t. You couldn’t.”

Aziraphale looked down, kissed Crowley’s lower lip, his jaw. His heart warmed with Crowley’s understanding, and yet even so he felt a kernel of implacable resistance inside himself. Aziraphale hadn’t earned this sort of unthinking kindness, a handwave, a “nah”. He had cheated Crowley out of the first joy of his heart for thousands of years, and he could not be easy about it. Crowley had suffered. It was only right that Aziraphale should suffer. And yet, here he was, lolling in post-orgasmic bliss. He nestled into Crowley’s neck and breathed in a great gulp of his heady aroma, the smell of temptation, once; now the smell of home.

Home was something they did talk about, fairly soon. Both felt it was time for a change. Crowley said he’d had it with his flat since Hastur and Ligur’s visit, could never get the smell of melted demon out, and Aziraphale had gently probed enough to know that the bookshop wasn’t home to him anymore, not since it had burned. For his part, Aziraphale wanted to be away from anywhere Gabriel and Sandalphon had ever set foot, and the notion of a country retreat began to be attractive. After a good deal of wine-fuelled negotiation, a cottage in the South Downs was purchased (the estate agent would never be able to determine whose money, exactly, it had been) and they had been settled there a few months. Happy. Restless.

At least, Aziraphale was restless. It felt like a betrayal, admitting as much, especially because Crowley seemed to have taken to their new environment like a duck to water. Aziraphale had anticipated something of a chafing period -- had even feared that Crowley would quickly become so bored at the pace of country life that he'd suggest they abandon the whole idea and return to the metropolis. As time went on, however, it became quite clear that it wasn't Crowley who was missing what London had to offer. On the contrary, it was Aziraphale's routine which was now most fundamentally shifted: he had made a concerted effort over centuries to make Soho his home, and had revelled in its pubs and patisseries, its massage parlours and manicurists and esoteric little bazaars, where all manner of curiosities could be procured. Crowley, meanwhile, had lived in London mainly because Aziraphale was there. Aziraphale was home to him. 

The thought made Aziraphale unaccountably wretched. 

The garden was the biggest surprise. Crowley had always loved his plants, of course, but Aziraphale could never quite have pictured him giving himself over to it as he had done, tending kitchen garden herbs and coaxing wisteria up the trellis below the bay window. Now, as Aziraphale leaned on the sill, he could see Crowley hard at work below. He looked down at the top of his scarlet head, at the breadth of his bony shoulders under his t-shirt, and felt his heart clench -- with love, certainly, but with an edge of something else beneath it. 

Reading was Aziraphale's habitual retreat from the world. He turned away from the lush vision of Crowley, sunlit, and moved into the dark hallway off the bedroom, opening the door to the airing cupboard and rummaging in the back under a stack of quilts. He knew he was foolish to keep such things under lock and key -- Crowley didn’t read books, he always said, and it would no doubt be wiser to hide them in plain sight. But a long lifetime’s caution could not, as he had learned the hard way, be thrown away in a day. He unlocked the chest and brought out the first edition of _ Mr. Benson,  _ a signed copy of  _ Macho Sluts _ that was, regrettably, missing its cover and then, after a moment’s pause, his carefully preserved hardbound edition of  _ Justine _ . He caressed the cover with his thumb and fizzed gently with the automatic response he felt whenever he even thought about -- This.

He retreated into his study and closed the door, spreading his pornography out before him. Even through his excitement he felt faintly ridiculous; Crowley had made exquisite love to him just that morning, taking him sweetly in hand and covering him with tender kisses until Aziraphale cried out into his mouth. And yet here he was. Here This was. He dug his short nails into his thigh as hard as he could and closed his eyes against the sting of it, centring himself. Then he started with  _ Calyx of Isis _ . As Roxanne proved her love for Alex by undergoing unspeakable torments, Aziraphale bit his lip and twisted bruises into his flesh until his cock was hard and aching, his arse empty and clenching. He wrenched his trousers and pants down and scraped his nails over his reddened thighs, over the swollen skin. Aziraphale’s body, like any human body, reacted to damage -- and Aziraphale was thankful for it. He imagined Crowley standing over him with a cat o’ nine tails, striking hard enough to draw blood.

“You say you love me,” growled Crowley in his mind. “Prove it.” He scourged him again, hard and fast, a rain of tingling blows blending together into a veil of pain, transcendent. His cock bounced against his belly, his balls drew up, everything was blazing with heat and tightness, flame washing his skin. A welcome floating sensation began to envelop his mind.

“Yes, yes. Good. Show me.” Crowley’s voice was satisfied now, but still commanding. Aziraphale reached for himself. “No. Show me how you take my cock.”

Aziraphale sucked three fingers hurriedly and pushed them without prelude into his arse, riding the bite of it, the burn of it, with ardour and devotion. “Yeah. Like that. Hard. No mercy.” With his other hand, Aziraphale pinched the raw skin of his thigh, then scraped his nails over it again, shivering.

He had...implements, for this kind of thing, some of which were such early examples of their kind that collectors would have killed each other over them. His thunderous purple vibrator, or the sleek black dildo he’d once used to fuck himself with, imagining it was Crowley -- both were strongly tied to This, to all of it. Taking them out in secret, then, felt like a betrayal of the world they'd built together. His own hands, and the mental accompaniment of a Crowley who was not quite his Crowley, were bad enough, but Aziraphale could sublimate the guilt, just about. He needed to. He knew how magnificent it felt, now, to have Crowley pin him down and fill him up; but his fantasies were old ones, entrenched. His warm, living, loving Crowley would never treat him like this, and so Aziraphale must treat himself as basely, as cruelly as he deserved. 

Aziraphale spread his fingers, making his hand as broad and unyielding as could be achieved. He bit his lip, hard. “There you go,” said his imaginary Crowley, all sneer and silk. “Look at you. Desperate for it.” 

Aziraphale’s hand crept up beneath his shirt, groping. He dragged his nails across his belly, then palmed roughly at his chest, gathering up handfuls of the soft flesh, squeezing. His nipples were peaked and sensitive to his touch; he tugged at one between thumb and forefinger until it was throbbing and sore. Crowley worshipped him there when they slept together, kissing his throat and his collarbones and curling his sweet snake’s tongue around Aziraphale’s nipples. Aziraphale thought of his teeth, and shuddered.

"Please," he breathed, a thready little whisper of a word, and in his mind Crowley's mouth quirked, amused. 

"Please what, angel? Please touch me? Please let me come? Please,  _ sir?"  _

Something sparked in Aziraphale's belly at the thought of it, the supercilious expression on Crowley's beautiful face, the golden eyes glittering. He brought his hand, at last, back to his straining cock and squeezed it painfully hard. He had been hard for so long that a sticky trail of pre-ejaculate had made its way down almost to his balls, and his prick twitched at the rough treatment, swelling further in his fist. 

“You think you deserve to come now, do you? Think you’ve earned it?” Aziraphale worked his hand fast and rough inside himself, imagining now Crowley battering inside him, holding him apart and taking his own pleasure, heedlessly. “Show me how you open for me, angel. Give me what’s  _ mine. _ ”

“Yes, yes, please, take it --” Aziraphale strained against Crowley’s onslaught, Crowley’s hand gripping fiercely around the base of his cock, the intense pressure, the bite of pain at the edge of him. His whole skin was flaming.

“You’re  _ mine _ . You do what I tell you. You take what I give you. And you say ‘thank you.’ Say it. Say it, and maybe I’ll let you come.”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale whispered, tugging his foreskin down to expose his glans and continuing to pull down hard, feeling the straining skin, the tightness as his whole cock lit up with delicious stretching pain. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Crowley filled him, spent inside him, thrusting mercilessly, shouting. Fire rolled through Aziraphale, his arse clenching as the crisis shook him, burning through his cock and shooting out all over his stomach and chest. In that instant, as he cried out his release, he heard the door slam.

“Care for a spot of lunch? I was thinking about --”

No time, no time. Aziraphale miracled away the evidence -- semen, scratches, bruises -- and righted his clothes in haste. A tiny piece of him was grieving the great floating bliss that This always gave him, afterwards; he would not get it now. He could not resent Crowley’s intrusion, of course. Aziraphale had no right to such things. He took a deep breath and quieted his heart rate.

“Oh, there you are.” Crowley came into the room and dropped a hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale glanced around to make sure everything was in order and realized he’d neglected to put away the books, which were still lying open on his desk. He froze, then tried to behave naturally, tugging at his tie and waistcoat. “I was thinking about that little Greek place. We haven’t tried it yet.”

“Hello. Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.” His arse ached. Normally he would enjoy this for hours afterwards. Just now it was, well, inconvenient. But Crowley would notice if he miracled it away. He shifted a little in his chair and looked up at Crowley. “How’s the new border coming along?”

But Crowley’s eyes had drifted to the desk, to the books on it. To  _ Justine _ . His long fingers closed the book slowly and turned it, and Aziraphale watched his face as he confirmed his suspicions. “De Sade? Really?”

\--

“Thank you for the dance, gentlemen. That was splendid, most splendid.” Aziraphale smiled and toasted his new friends, flushed with his exertions and enjoying the rapid beat of his heart, the light sweat under his arms, the giddy sensation that always accompanied this endeavour. He’d not felt anything quite like it before. Dancing was closest to flying, he supposed, but since he’d been stationed on Earth he’d had so few opportunities to stretch his wings. And flying wasn’t social anyway. Not for him. Not anymore.

“You do it so well, dear,” Geoffrey said, giving him a little wink. “Anyone would think you were born to it.”

“You flatter me,” Aziraphale returned, glancing at his pocket watch. It was almost time. Soon, the lights would be extinguished and everyone would have their way with one another. He sighed. It wasn’t quite what he was in the mood for, this evening. Or at all, lately, if he was honest with himself.

He had been so thrilled to join the Hundred Guineas Club, to meet these fine gentlemen and be taken into their world. They were so kind and generous to him, so friendly and charming. They’d taught him to dance, they’d flirted with him, they’d made him feel welcome and even special. He almost felt that he belonged here.

And he had enjoyed the sex as well, very much, as he had from time to time with humans as he went along -- always careful to keep connections distant and expectations modest. Aziraphale never wanted to hurt anyone.

Recently, though, he thought he might want someone to hurt him.

“What’s troubling you tonight?” Geoffrey asked, patting his sleeve.

Aziraphale finished his sherry. “Is your friend Jack receiving visitors this evening?”

Geoffrey’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think you -- er -- yes, I believe so.”

“Be a love and take me there.”

\--

“You will be courteous and you will speak when you are spoken to.”

“Yes, sir.” It was strange, calling him ‘sir’. Aziraphale didn’t even like to use the term with his customers, on the rare occasions when he couldn’t avoid speaking to them. But Jack was a gentleman of a certain standing, and Aziraphale was (to all appearances) a tradesman, and certain observances were necessary.

Jack, a tall man in his mid-fifties with impressive side whiskers and a broad back, had a relaxed posture that nevertheless radiated dignity and command. His eyes were a warm brown but held no hint of softness. “You will do as you are told.”

This was all too familiar, so why was it thrilling? Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“You will take what I give you. If you don’t like it, you won’t come back.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.” Aziraphale was hard in his trousers as he had never been at the club. He knew what Jack would do. He was hungry for it. He was afraid of it.

“Take off your coat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack, Aziraphale noticed, also removed his coat, and began rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t look at me. Show some respect.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry sir,” Aziraphale said, dropping his eyes to the richly colored Turkish carpet. Jack was doing rather well for himself, it appeared; the address in Belgravia was an impressive one, his home furnished with the most modern appurtenances alongside tasteful classics. Aziraphale had spied some enticing volumes on the shelves, but it was clear to him he would not have time to examine them.

“Take down your trousers and underclothes and bend over the desk.”

“Yes, sir.” So cold. Almost businesslike. There was no opportunity to make friends, here, nor even to get to know one another a bit. They were both here for only one reason. Aziraphale did as he was told, shaking. For an instant he had an image of his own wings unfurling as he lay over the desk, imagined trying to protect himself from what he knew was coming, from what he craved and feared. Aziraphale felt driven to this; years of loneliness and regret had pushed him toward this moment. He needed to be here. He deserved to be here. 

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley since Crowley had asked him for holy water. He missed him desperately, and understood now that their separation was his fault. He had broken Crowley’s trust. He had been selfish, so selfish -- and now Crowley might never speak to him again. His own doing.

Aziraphale’s head was turned toward the side of the room where there stood a tall japanned cabinet, and to this Jack walked with a measured stride, silent on the thick carpet. He opened the cabinet door and revealed a row of instruments, paused a moment, and selected one: a rattan cane, fairly thin, less than half an inch in diameter to Aziraphale’s eyes. Jack pulled it from its display fitting with some reverence and turned toward him, and Aziraphale jerked his eyes to the desk in front of him, its mahogany surface polished, the leather matting holding the blotter providing a slight cushion under his body.

Aziraphale felt the first strike before he heard the cane cutting the air, a white-hot stripe of pain across his right buttock. This was followed immediately by a searing sensation and the ripple of vibrations across his arse and into his anus. A moan escaped him and he was briefly horrified -- he did not know this man, had had no intention of revealing any emotions in front of him. But warmth radiated through his body and he found himself grinding his prick into the desk. He was just beginning to think that Jack hadn’t hit him very hard when the cane struck again. The burning line cracked across him once more and his flesh bounced deliciously. He clenched against the emptiness in his arse, chasing sensation, and heat flooded up his spine.

Jack now seemed to be scraping the cane back and forth over his sensitised skin. It stung like the dickens and Aziraphale squirmed.

“Don’t move.”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“You will take what I give you and you will like it.” There was a bit of thickness in Jack’s voice now, Aziraphale thought, or perhaps he was just hoping for some kind of connection.

“Yes, sir.” Aziraphale said with a quaver. He did like it, that was the trouble. “I will. Thank you, sir.”

"Count," Jack said. "Lie perfectly still, and count them for me." 

No part of it, quite obviously, was a suggestion. Aziraphale caught his breath, and his body tensed, anticipatory. The point of the cane, needling the outer curve of his buttock, made him start; Aziraphale looked up and back, wide-eyed, and was met by Jack's stoic dark gaze, all deliberation. 

"Relax," he said. It was the first time he had said anything which could have been construed as kind. "Lie still. Count. Breathe, pet." 

_ Pet.  _ The word thrilled down Aziraphale's spine, as, too, did the hint of Scots he detected now in Jack's voice, something rhotic and authoritarian that made Aziraphale's stomach twist. He'd heard Crowley adopt a similar affectation, the public school Scot, especially in feminine guise, and the point of connection made his legs instantly weak. Crowley had been asleep for -- oh, years, now. Aziraphale ought to have moved beyond missing him, but it took more than a few years to undo the habits of millennia. 

"Are you ready?" Jack asked. Aziraphale shifted slightly, inclined his head. His hips jerked, despite himself, on the desk. 

"Yes, sir," he said.

The cane descended, whistling. Aziraphale, despite himself, found he was unprepared for the shock of impact. At first, it seemed barely to register; then the pain bloomed, slow and hot, across his buttock and into his anus, reverberating behind his balls. He groaned, shifting on the desk, and Jack deliberated a moment, as if allowing the opening volley to count as a misstroke, before landing a second blow, slightly lower, just under the curve of his arse. 

"Ah!" Aziraphale bit his lip, furious with himself. He had sworn himself to silence: if he was to do this, there would be no talking, no interaction beyond the absolutely necessary with the -- the master, he supposed. He hadn't considered how viscerally it would grip him, the sensation of pain licking up his spine, lingering in his arse. He hadn't considered how hard it would be, to stay silent while Jack laid into him with rattan and resolve, all strong arm and dark eyes and might. His faculties felt scrambled, but he could feel the weight of Jack's expectation like a blanket on his shoulders. He'd had his stay of punishment; now he had to do as he was told. Wetting his lips, he forced out the word: “One.” 

Another blow landed, and this time Aziraphale managed to catalogue it dutifully and without the yelp the first blow had startled from him. “Two.”

If Jack had noticed Aziraphale's outburst, he paid it no attention. The cane lingered, for a moment, on the curve of his arse, then traced a slow path to the dimples at the base of his spine, close to his tailbone. The point of the cane wavered there a moment; then Jack grunted and another blow connected, firm and fast, with the undercurve of Aziraphale's right buttock. 

"Ah! Th—three.” 

He was beyond dignity, then. Beyond self control. Aziraphale panted, breathing into the humid space between his arms and the desk, lifting his hips into the brutal bite of the cane. If asked, he could not have said why, exactly, he was choosing to stay here, when he could have taken himself off anywhere, to do anything. It was not for Heaven's sake that he plastered himself flat upon this man's leather-topped captain's desk; it was not for the love of God that he lifted his arse, and shivered, and begged. And yet, he was conscious of the word passing his lips:  _ please.  _ "Please," Aziraphale said, and sensed Jack smile at his back. 

“Yes,” he said, “I think you’re ready now. You can stop counting, pet. You’ll soon lose track.” With that, he lifted the cane and laid in. 

The pain developed -- amassed. Aziraphale breathed out slow through his mouth and leaned into it, the pressure of it and the rush. Heat tingled up his spine, sparking in his nipples and cock, and the raised burn of the stripes across his arse felt like something alive, spreading everywhere like a wildfire. Aziraphale whimpered; shifted. The cane came down again across the lower part of his arse and Aziraphale jerked, feeling his cock pulse precome onto the desktop. 

"Please," Aziraphale said, unbidden. Jack's big hand cupped his jaw, then his throat. It curved around to follow the shape of Aziraphale's ear, then fisted in his hair, carefully. Jack said: "Take it. You can. You’re being very good.” 

Aziraphale shivered. Twitched. Surrendered. 

Another blow landed, then another. Jack, it seemed, had somehow identified the best place to switch his cane in order to render Aziraphale into jelly; Aziraphale was soon clawing at the desk, pushing his hips up into the onslaught, his eyes screwed shut and his breath rasping. Jack thrashed him slowly at first, and then faster, until the blows pummelled his arse in an endless, tumultuous rain that left Aziraphale short of breath, wide eyed and wanting. Aziraphale's arse felt wide open, thrumming with sensation; unoccupied. Aziraphale clenched, hard around nothing, and lifted his head. 

"Would you --?" 

"Demanding, are we?" 

Aziraphale squirmed. His cock was fiercely hard, leaking over the green leather that made up the protective pad on the desk. He could feel the sweat gathering between his thighs; he hardly knew what he was asking for, or even what he could ask for. The contract between them, Aziraphale realised desperately, had been poorly negotiated. 

"Be still," Jack said. Taking pity, then. There was something warmer in his voice now, as if something about Aziraphale had affected him. As if the doling out of punishment was not purely a sadistic impulse for him, but held some element of pleasure at giving what was longed for. 

Or perhaps that was Aziraphale’s wishful thinking. 

Trembling, he lifted his hips, pushing back, his whole body pleading. The effort to keep from moving was beyond him, too much; Jack tapped him lightly across the backside with the edge of the cane and Aziraphale yelped, stilling at the admonishment. 

The cane came down again, hard. Something about it was, this time, different, more. Aziraphale's breath caught, and the pain flashed up through the muscles of his back, into his shoulders, unravelling him. Aziraphale could hear himself breathing. His heart was beating fast in his throat, but every other part of him seemed, all of a sudden, at a remove -- quiet. 

He wasn't aware of the passage of time until he realised the cane, too, had stilled. Far above him, he could feel Jack's grounding presence, and then Jack's big hand came down on his shoulder, cupped the back of his spine. 

“There,” he said. “You’re all right. Well done.” 

“I’ve,” Aziraphale began, helplessly, but then the hand on his back began to move in slow circles and Aziraphale’s body felt as if it was relaxing despite himself, muscles going lax. The feeling drifting through him seemed to be progressing outward from his abused arse, up his spine and into his chest. His ears were ringing, but in a way that seemed to be drowning out the more unpleasant interference in his head. 

“You’ve done as you were told,” Jack said, calmly. “Be still, now. Be good for me a while longer.” 

There was something almost soporific in the tone of Jack’s voice, the praise in it. Aziraphale had thought punishment was what he wanted, but now he found that it was a salve, too, to be congratulated on having taken that punishment, while the sting of it was still hot across his arse and thighs, a good slow burn like whisky in the throat. Aziraphale felt his eyelids droop. 

He heard, as if from a distance, the sounds of Jack padding around in the room behind him, but he felt oddly uninterested in knowing what he was doing, or indeed in moving at all. Be still, Jack had said, and Aziraphale, incredibly, was. 

At long last, Aziraphale felt himself lifted at the hips, and helped to stand. Jack did not take him in his arms, although he stumbled, and Aziraphale felt a flash of disappointment, before he reminded himself that he did not know this man. They were not lovers; they were not even friends. But Aziraphale felt — cleansed, he supposed; as if Jack had scourged him and rebuilt him again, and the feeling encouraged an inevitable fondness of sorts. 

“I’ll send for your friend,” Jack said gruffly, “to see you home. Come back when you need to.” 

“I will,” Aziraphale said, knowing as he said it that it was true. “Thank you.” 

Jack inclined his head. “And if you want anything else, I know people. Professionals.” 

Aziraphale did go back to Jack, sooner than he’d intended to. But by the end of the year, he had also made the acquaintance of a number of his associates, each of whom had his own approach and catered to his own aspects of what Aziraphale truly craved. Jack and his cane had awakened something in him which had been, not dormant, but shackled. Now that it had been freed from its chains, Aziraphale was powerless to cram it back into its prison again. Moreover, he found that he did not want to. 

\--

“Yes, it -- I...er.” Aziraphale tracked Crowley’s gaze from the book in his hand to the others on the desk and felt the flushed dampness of his own skin, the waning ache in his pelvis. The awkward silence stretching between them. “I have found it...motivating, from time to time.”

Crowley’s face, and thank God he’d been wearing his glasses against the midday sun, turned toward his. “Motivating.”

Aziraphale’s throat was dry. He swallowed. “ _ Justine _ is the story of a person who struggles toward virtue in the face of constant challenges --”

“Rape. Humiliation. Torture. Challenges like that. That’s motivating for you, is it?” Crowley sounded the way he had in the Bastille, describing the guillotine. Or any time he talked about the human propensity for destruction and cruelty. Sarcastic, fatalistic, disgusted. But here, there was a note of surprise. And Aziraphale realised he had never before felt Crowley’s judgment. Not this way.

“I -- not perhaps the way you mean.” He hadn’t imagined ever being able to reveal This to Crowley, the risks were so great. But he saw that there was a chance of doing much deeper damage if he said nothing, or tried to obfuscate now. He took Crowley’s hand. “My dear, I.” He cleared his throat and started again. His heart was hammering. “You know that I have a weakness for many human pleasures. There was a time in my life when I --” Slowly, go slowly, he admonished himself. Think, think. “I sampled some of the more -- more esoteric ones, and found that I liked them.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open and he drew his hand out of Aziraphale’s. “You liked...you want to --” Crowley’s eyebrows rose from behind his glasses. “No, that’s not it, is it. You want  _ me  _ to --” He backed away, bumping into the edge of the open door in his haste. “Absolutely not, under no circumstances.” 

Aziraphale rose, making a placating gesture with his hands. Don’t crowd him, he thought. He’s frightened and angry. Aziraphale’s own fear threatened to eclipse him. They had loved one another in vain for so long. They had built together a fragile trust, then a deep friendship, and now the most glorious unfolding of their love, at last. Still so new. And here was Crowley, repulsed. “It’s nothing serious, Crowley, I promise you. It’s only a bit of fun.” He tried to smile.

“ _ Fun? _ ” Crowley snarled. “The idea that I could  _ hurt you  _ for  _ fun. _ Who the fuck do you think I am?” Crowley started out the door, then turned back, from the hallway. “I categorically  _ refuse _ to be your -- your  _ demon lover, _ ” he spat. Then he picked up his keys from the bowl and slammed out of the house. A moment later, Aziraphale heard the Bentley start up and screech out of the drive.

Aziraphale, shaking, took a deep breath and tried to keep himself from flying to pieces. He swallowed the hot lump in his throat and hastily waved the books back to their place in the locked trunk in the cupboard. What had he done?

The thought of Crowley misunderstanding him so thoroughly was the most piercing anguish. Crowley was good -- he had to know it. Not the slightest crumb of doubt had been in Aziraphale's mind for oh, over a hundred years now. Aziraphale loved his conscience, his affection for humanity, his rejection of violence -- in short, he was no worse than he should be. 

There had been a time, yes, before they really knew one another, when Aziraphale had been constantly on guard and fearful of Crowley's so-called wiles. But he had never -- he squirmed -- never fetishised Crowley's demonic nature. This wasn't about Crowley being bad. And it broke Aziraphale's heart to know that Crowley had leapt to that conclusion.

Crowley's rage, his bitterness -- that, Aziraphale had never looked for. When he'd dared to imagine revealing himself, he'd worked out that the most likely outcome would be Crowley's indulgence. Crowley would do it, for him, because Crowley would give Aziraphale anything he wanted. But, in his heart, Crowley would hate it. He would hate hurting Aziraphale, whom he loved, whom he held blameless of every wrong. And he would hate being cast in the role of the evil one, the torturer. The demon lover.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. Crowley might never forgive him. The last time Aziraphale had seen him this angry, the fate of the world was at stake, and Aziraphale had behaved absolutely abominably to him. And yet somehow Aziraphale had never brought himself to apologise -- he’d never had to. When the world hadn’t ended, it was as though Crowley had forgotten the whole conversation. As though Aziraphale had never suggested that they were nothing more to one another than an angel and a demon.

No, Crowley had shaken it all off, just as he’d shaken off the three bottles of whisky he’d dispatched when Aziraphale appeared to him at the pub, discorporated and urgent, and sent him on the wild goose chase that the Apocalypse had turned out to be. He’d invited Aziraphale to stay at his flat as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He’d allowed Aziraphale to hold his hand on the bus the whole way back to London, had been hospitable and then enthusiastic as Aziraphale shared his plan for their survival, and collapsed in trusting exhaustion next to him. He’d walked into deathly peril in Heaven for Aziraphale. And the very next day, he’d permitted Aziraphale to kiss him.

And now Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s generosity for granted, had possibly thrown away the dearest joy of his life for This -- this twisted, hungry thing at the core of him that he didn’t even really  _ need _ . 

It was Aziraphale’s rage at himself, his guilt over what he’d done to Crowley, that had led him to Jack, to seek the punishment Crowley wasn’t there to mete out. To the treatment he deserved. To This. And now This had driven Crowley away. Maybe forever.

Aziraphale shuffled into the kitchen and began making himself a cup of cocoa, seeking the fragile comfort of warmth and sweetness. He was agitated and trembling, and the whisk bounced against the edge of the pan, spattering drops of milk on the hob. He wished he could still pray. If he’d believed God would listen or care, he’d have been on his knees in an instant, begging Her to send Crowley back so that he could make amends. He was already rehearsing his apologies, and this time, oh this time he would make them, if Crowley would only come back.

Crowley was out there somewhere, believing Aziraphale still thought of him as evil, a torturer, a minion of Hell. Aziraphale burst into tears.

\--

Two days later, Aziraphale was sitting in the wing-backed chair in their bedroom, blanket draped over his shoulders and  _ Persuasion _ unread on his knees, when he heard the front door swing open. Crowley! His heart jumped and he stood abruptly, dropping the book. Then he didn’t know what to do. Should he go to him?

He heard Crowley’s light step making its way down the hall, the creak of the study door. “In here,” Aziraphale called, voice breaking.

Crowley slouched into the bedroom, still in his sunglasses, still in the same clothes he had been wearing before -- very unlike him. He looked tense and exhausted. He tilted his head at Aziraphale but did not approach, then flung himself on the bed, slantwise, head missing the pillows. “All right, then. Tell me what you like about it.”

Warmth flooded Aziraphale’s chest, his throat aching around a lump of love and gratitude. He had not dared to expect Crowley’s return, let alone so soon. And now Crowley was -- well, he was doing what Crowley did, wasn’t he? Asking questions. 

Crowley was gazing at the ceiling. He hadn’t reached out to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale didn’t dare approach more than a step, even though every atom was crying out for connection. He remained standing. “I’ll answer your question, Crowley, I promise. But first, please, I must tell you that I love you, and I know you would never wilfully be cruel to me, or to anyone.”

“Demon,” Crowley drawled. “In the job description.”

“You don’t have a job any more,” Aziraphale reminded him gently, the way Crowley had once reminded him. “And even when you did, you -- you found ways to --”

“Aziraphale, if you say ‘you’re not like other demons’ I’m walking right back outta here.” Crowley took off his glasses and scrubbed his hands over his face. He still hadn’t looked at Aziraphale. His posture appeared relaxed, but tension threaded his shoulders, arms, kinked through the bones of his hands as they clawed at his hair.

“Very well, I won’t argue ethics with you. But I want to be clear: This -- this thing that I like. It’s nothing to do with you being a demon, or me wanting you to -- to act like one, in any way. I don’t -- that’s not it at all.”

Crowley’s hand rested over his eyes now. He was silent. Waiting.

“Before I answer your question, I also want you to know that these past few months have been absolute bliss to me. I never dared to hope that we could be together this way. The way you touch me -- it’s -- I  _ adore _ it, don’t think for one minute --”

“Angel. I know that you love me. I know that you love fucking me. And now I know that you’re not --” Crowley swallowed. “Not -- satisfied.” His hand, the one on the bed, clenched slowly into a fist. “So please. Tell me what you like.”

If Aziraphale had still had a relationship with God, he would have thanked her for the gift of Crowley’s love, which now more than ever he understood that he did not deserve. Dear Crowley, who wanted so much to please him, who would do anything for him, make such sacrifices. Aziraphale pressed his hand to his chest. He couldn’t allow Crowley to do anything he didn’t truly want to do. He would answer Crowley’s questions and hope that there was something there for him -- something that stirred Crowley’s own interest. Maybe there could be a way forward. But there would be no expectation.

“Well, there are several things. I like -- I like pain. Certain types of pain.” Aziraphale groped his way back to the chair and sat in it, restless, searching for words. He had, through more than a century of seeking these pleasures, learnt to speak about what he wanted, and the vocabulary ought to be readily available. But to share this with Crowley felt like an enormous risk, even though Crowley had asked. “I suppose you know that human bodies have a facility for transmuting pain into pleasure. I am particularly partial to -- being struck.”

“Struck.” Crowley didn’t move.

“I like a -- a sharp sensation. Blows from a whip or a narrow paddle. My favorite is the cane. An experienced dominant can produce a wide variety of sensations from it. And it does make the body bounce so pleasantly underneath the strikes.” In spite of himself, Aziraphale was warming to his topic, speaking a little too quickly perhaps. He took a deep breath.

Crowley took one too, and slowly exhaled. “You said several things. What else, besides pain?”

“Ah. I like to, erm. Oh, dear.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. Somehow this admission was much more difficult. Bodies were just bodies after all -- wonderful, glorious artifacts of creation, but just matter. “I like to. Follow orders.”

Crowley’s hand came off his face and he actually turned and  _ looked _ at Aziraphale, his golden eyes searching Aziraphale’s face incredulously. “You  _ what _ ?”

Aziraphale could feel himself flushing to the tips of his ears. “I like to obey,” he said softly. He was embarrassed and, he realised, slightly aroused. Stop, stop, he told himself sternly. You don’t know what Crowley thinks of all this; he might still be horrified.

“You never!” Crowley’s mouth was agape. “Angel, you’ve spent your whole life wangling your way out of following orders.”

“I have not either!” Aziraphale huffed, tugging at his waistcoat. “I’ve been very obedient -- in most things.” He looked down, then back to meet Crowley’s eyes. “Well, some things.” He risked a smile.

Crowley didn’t return it. “Tell me so I can understand.”

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s -- it makes things simple, really. It -- it’s relaxing. I can just let the dominant make all the decisions, I don’t have to think, I don’t have to worry. And then -- then I have the satisfaction of -- of a job well done, really.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “What else?”

“There’s a -- well, this is difficult to explain, but. It’s almost a metaphysical state, that can come about. Sometimes just the pain brings it on, or the body’s pleasure response to the pain. Other times, the dominant can induce it simply through commanding me. But it’s very, hm. Liberating? It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to flying. And yet I feel utterly still. At peace.”

It was impossible to tell how Crowley was taking all this. He was listening, absorbing, but for once there was no way to read him. He was almost perfectly motionless on the bed, his face barely flickering in response to anything Aziraphale said. Aziraphale suddenly imagined how it would feel to him, if Crowley were to confess all of these transporting experiences he’d had, with other people, that Aziraphale knew nothing about. It was like a knife in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Crowley turned his face back toward the ceiling. “Don’t,” he said. His voice was gentle, but Aziraphale could hear the pain in it.

Aziraphale slid out of the chair, to his knees by the edge of the bed, desperate to reach out but unwilling to cause any further harm. “I’m so -- I’m so terribly afraid of ruining everything. I’m so afraid I’ve disgusted you.”

Crowley sat up abruptly and turned toward him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He reached for Aziraphale’s hands, clasping them, the blessed touch of his cool, dry skin a balm to Aziraphale’s fevered palms. “No, no, you won’t, you haven’t.” Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s knuckles, not quite a kiss, then looked up into his eyes. “I won’t let you go, Aziraphale. Not ever. I just need time to think.”

\--

At first, Aziraphale couldn't put a finger on what had changed -- what constituted Crowley  _ taking time  _ to digest what he'd been told. He wasn't distant, exactly. He didn't announce that he was going to sleep in the other room, or stop making coffee for two, or let Aziraphale do the crossword unharassed. But some things, Aziraphale noticed, did stop. Crowley stopped walking about naked, for one thing. He stopped kissing Aziraphale as he had been -- when they woke up; when they cooked together; when Aziraphale smiled at him a certain way. Just because. 

And he stopped making sexual overtures. Aziraphale began to suspect this was the case by the time three days had elapsed without Crowley's hand slithering up his thigh, or Crowley's mouth warm at the nape of his neck. By the time a week had passed, Aziraphale was certain. This was deliberate. 

It didn't feel like punishment, exactly. Crowley wasn't cruel to him, or even cold; there was no sense that this was passive aggressiveness on his part. It was, Aziraphale thought -- nervous, but fairly sure -- part of a process, and a process which Aziraphale felt he hadn't the right to interrupt. He could have gone to Crowley himself -- initiated a kiss, or suggested they adjourn to bed -- but he knew in his heart that it wasn't for him to do so. Crowley was thinking. He'd asked for time, and after what he'd done, time was the very least Aziraphale could give. 

For the first week or two, Aziraphale consoled himself with the fact that Crowley remained, in most ways, thoroughly his old self. He solicited Aziraphale's opinions on his most rakish new outfits, and then instantly dismissed them. He disappeared without explanation, and then reappeared with a crateload of wine in the back seat of the Bentley and a debonair smile. He cooked elaborate dishes, and then watched, chin in his palm and expression inscrutable, while Aziraphale ate them. It wasn't quite the Crowley Aziraphale had become accustomed to, but it wasn't anything unfamiliar, either. More than anything else, it felt like a return to Before. 

It wasn't until the third week of this that Aziraphale remembered exactly why time with Crowley Before had been so imperfect; so painful. So full of a yearning that sat in his chest like a stone. He  _ had  _ Crowley with him, after all; he knew that Crowley loved him. But Crowley wouldn't, or couldn't, touch him, and Aziraphale hadn't the strength or (he was sure) the freedom to reach across and cross that final barrier between them. A return to Before was a return to six millennia of starvation, while the coveted banquet sat, unconsumed, within sight, and yet beyond reach.

Crowley had always been a fan of solo outings -- neither of them had ever considered the idea that living together meant they need always be tethered to one another. Aziraphale liked his privacy, and Crowley his freedom. Now, however, Crowley seemed to be making the journey to London more often. On one occasion he returned with a box of sushi from one of Aziraphale's most favoured restaurants ("Present for you, angel"). On another, he casually remarked, as he set down his sunglasses on the hall table, that Madame Tracy had sent the recipe for those scones Aziraphale had admired, their last visit. 

Aziraphale had glanced up at this, intrigued. "You've seen her? Without me?" 

Crowley froze, for a second -- but only a second. The next moment, he gave an easy shrug and loped into the living room, throwing himself down on the settee. "In the area, wasn't I? Rude not to drop in." 

_ Since when have you cared about being rude,  _ Aziraphale thought. Any other time, he'd have said it. Now, however, he felt unsure of his welcome, afraid to tease, and he said, instead, "I suppose so." 

"Well then," Crowley said, and passed over a neatly folded slip of paper. "For your Sunday baking." 

Aziraphale couldn't pretend it didn't sting, the idea of Crowley spending time so willingly with other people. Oh, he'd always had acquaintances, hung about with them for a month or two; people liked Crowley, and Crowley liked to be liked. But this felt different, somehow. Madame Tracy was  _ their  _ friend, and Crowley visiting her without him was… 

Aziraphale blinked, forcing himself to put it out of his mind. It was nothing, he told himself firmly. Crowley was thinking. If he needed to find new routes to help him with that, well, that was none of Aziraphale's business. 

A computer materialised in the front room. Aziraphale noticed it one morning on the arm of a chair; later that day, he found Crowley curled up with the thing in his lap, pecking away. For all his smoothness, and all his centuries' expertise, Crowley had never really learned to type. 

"Looking something up?" Aziraphale enquired, leaning down to collect Crowley's empty mug. 

"Writing my great novel," Crowley countered, looking up with his patented silly grin on his face.  _ Don't ask me,  _ said the grin.  _ Don't push.  _

Aziraphale left it at that, and took the mug into the kitchen. 

Eventually, he thought -- eventually, Crowley would be ready to talk to him again as he used to. Ready to kiss him again, make love to him. Aziraphale had to believe this, because the alternative -- that he'd been foolish enough to reject (blissfully, perfectly) good enough in favour of a twisted longing for perfection -- didn't bear contemplating. 

\--

They were in the lounge one evening following a modest tea at the village tearoom. Aziraphale dared to sit next to Crowley on the sofa -- not touching, but still closer than he would have sat, Before. He was reading  _ Tess of the D'Urbervilles  _ and quietly yearning toward Crowley, who was watching a television show on his computer, enormous headphones over his ears. Aziraphale glanced over. A woman was flirting with a priest. The priest, apparently, was flirting back.

Aziraphale darted his eyes to Crowley’s face, pale and flickering with the light from the screen. His amber eyes were intent, lips gently parted. Aziraphale ached to feel those lips on his, and the familiarity of the desire brought with it a bitterness: he knew now the precise sensations of all of Crowley’s kisses, as he could only imagine them in the thousands of years before. And although Crowley had said he would not let him go, it might be that Aziraphale had tasted his kisses for the last time.

Abruptly, Crowley snapped his computer closed and pulled off his headphones. He turned to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could see the pulse beating in his throat, a bit faster than normal. His eyes glittered. “Take off your clothes,” he said, without preamble.

“I -- what?” Aziraphale fumbled, even as something thunked in his chest. Hope. Fear.

“You like following orders?” Crowley said, stretching his arm over the back of the sofa towards Aziraphale. Still not touching. “Here’s one for you. Take off your clothes.”

Aziraphale exhaled a shuddery breath. He wanted this, oh, he wanted it. But he must take care. “Are you sure, Crowley? You don’t have to --”

“I thought you were so obedient,” Crowley tsked. He reached for Aziraphale’s face, cupped his jaw and brought it inches from his own. Aziraphale could feel his breath over his lips, feel the heat of his gaze. “Do it. I won’t tell you again.”

A shiver ran down Aziraphale from his neck, where Crowley’s fingertips stroked as they released him, down to the base of his spine. His prick stirred and he felt heat surging to his hands, his face. How he had dreamed of this -- just this.

He bent to untie and remove his shoes and socks with trembling fingers. Then he sat up and got to work on his tie. Crowley watched him intently. He swallowed under it. He had spent thousands of years under Crowley’s regard but had never felt it like this. 

Aziraphale got out of his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and vest as efficiently as possible, not stopping to tidy the clothes as he normally would. He watched agape for a moment as Crowley began to fold his coat and shirt and drape them neatly over the arm of the sofa, and then recollected himself and rose to shuck out of his trousers and pants. Naked, he stood before Crowley, who bent to retrieve the trousers and shake them out, then seated himself again and gave Aziraphale a long, appraising look.

“Stars, you’re beautiful. I don’t tell you enough.” He drew his hand down Aziraphale’s shoulder and arm, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. “Do you know what it was like for me, angel? Waiting for you for so long? Waiting for you to work out that Heaven was never going to look after you?” He stroked over Aziraphale’s chest, pinching a nipple gently and then more firmly until Aziraphale gasped. His hand ran over Aziraphale’s belly and his fingers traced lightly over his prick, stiff and aching now. “It fucking  _ hurt. _ ”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, heart overflowing. This. This was what he needed, what he had needed for so long and had never had a name for.

“On your knees.” Crowley’s voice had a thickness to it, one Aziraphale recognised as he eagerly sank to kneel at his feet. Crowley spread his legs further apart, a request, a promise, and Aziraphale caught the heady scent of his arousal. He closed his eyes for a moment in wonder and gratitude. 

“Do you w-- oh, shit,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale opened his eyes. He gave Crowley an understanding smile and laid his head gently on his knee.

“I am yours to command,” he said softly. His heart was beating wildly. He felt Crowley’s fingers in his hair, a gentle petting gesture, reassurance -- for Crowley or for himself, he wasn’t sure. He leaned into it like a cat, and the pressure against his scalp increased as Crowley let out a ragged breath.

“Take out my prick,” Crowley said, “and kiss it.”

Pre-ejaculate spilled out of Aziraphale’s cock and drizzled onto his thigh. “Oh, yes, my dear,” he murmured, unfastening the snake-head belt and attending to Crowley’s fly. Crowley’s prick, unencumbered, sprang hot and heavy into Aziraphale’s hand. He pressed his lips fervently to the tip, and then began placing kisses all around the crown and down its length. He flicked his eyes up to see Crowley watching, one hand partly covering his face. His mouth was open in an astonishment of desire. Crowley’s other hand remained a welcome gentle weight on Aziraphale’s head.

“Good,” Crowley said, voice rough. “That’s very good, angel.”

Aziraphale’s entire body clenched with desire and happiness.

“Now suck me.”

Mouth watering, heart leaping, Aziraphale bent to take Crowley into his mouth. Normally he would begin by tenderly licking him all over, getting him wet to slide easily between his tight lips, but Crowley hadn’t told him to do this. He would do as he was told. He licked his lips and opened them to embrace Crowley’s cock, inhaling the beloved fragrance of him, tasting the savoury tang of him as the tender tip slid over his tongue. He placed his hands gently on Crowley’s hips, covered his teeth, and began to suck in earnest, his pulse beating fast in his ears, Crowley’s fingers curling in his hair.

Aziraphale had had his gag reflex finally trained out of him somewhere about 1887, and he would never forget the look on Crowley’s face when he’d first demonstrated this: the wide-eyed amazement at first, and then the gold of his irises slowly eclipsing the whites as he went boneless with pleasure in Aziraphale’s throat. Aziraphale loved doing this. He loved doing this for Crowley. But now it felt different -- not a time for showing off, but a time to release control. Crowley had said “suck me” and Aziraphale did so, with the greatest pleasure. He did not do more than that.

“Mmh. Ah, yesss. You look gorgeous this way.” Crowley’s fingers scraped against Aziraphale’s scalp, making every hair on his body stand up. And then they stroked down to cup his chin, tilting his head slightly. Aziraphale looked up but did not stop sucking Crowley’s cock.

Crowley waited until their eyes met, and then said, “I’m gonna fuck your mouth.” Aziraphale’s cock throbbed, sending another flood of pre-ejaculate down his thigh, and he whined deep in his chest. Crowley waited a moment longer, looking into his eyes, looking for something. Aziraphale blinked and swallowed his cock down to the root. “Oh, fuck yeah,” Crowley growled, beginning to work his hips.

Crowley had never done this before. He had gratefully accepted Aziraphale’s gifts in this area but had never made a move to do as he was doing now: gripping Aziraphale by the hair and the chin and fucking into his throat with slow, desperate slides. Aziraphale’s prick was hot with need, his body flaming and sweating, his knees prickling and burning on the carpet as he was pushed back and forth by the weight of Crowley’s thrusts. He embraced the pain like an old friend.

Crowley’s hands were fierce on his head, his cock moving faster, its head popping past the ring of muscle at the back of his throat, slick with the briny taste of his pre-ejaculate. Aziraphale felt full. Used. Loved. It was glorious.

“Take it,” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale soared. “ _ Fuck. _ ” Crowley’s voice, somewhere far away, and then his prick grew thicker in Aziraphale’s throat as he spent in great pulses. Aziraphale swallowed and swallowed around him, fingers digging into Crowley’s hips, knees grinding into the carpet, aloft on currents of bliss, carefree.

Then Crowley’s hands were on his shoulders, tugging at him as his softening prick slipped from Aziraphale’s lips. “Oh, love, come here, come here,” Crowley panted, pulling Aziraphale into his arms. Crowley’s clothes had disappeared and he hauled Aziraphale onto his glorious naked body, cool against Aziraphale’s flushed skin. Aziraphale melted into him as Crowley kissed him deeply and messily. He felt transcendent already, the blood throbbing in his flushed cock, his skin tingling everywhere. Then he felt Crowley’s hand close around his straining prick, and with one stroke, he was done for. He cried out into Crowley’s mouth, hips surging into the clutch of Crowley’s fist, and then he was coming, trembling and groaning and spilling in ecstasy all over them both. 

“Holy -- “ Crowley gasped, then kissed him again. Aziraphale collapsed against him and felt all the tension of these many weeks ebb out of his body. He was warm and content in Crowley’s lap, satiated. He had pleased Crowley. He had done well. 

Aziraphale was dimly aware of Crowley’s heart slowing under his ear, Crowley’s hand stroking his shoulder and down his arm, Crowley’s lips pressing against the top of his head again and again. A tender ache bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. How he had missed this. And now, it appeared, through nothing but Crowley’s own benevolence, he had it back. And more.

“Was it --” he murmured, and his voice caught. He cleared his throat. “Was it all right?”

Crowley’s hand moved to his head, tightened briefly to a fist in his hair. Aziraphale shivered. “A little better than ‘all right’”. He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’d no idea you could -- I barely touched you.”

Aziraphale raised his head to look at him. His vision was still a little blurry. Crowley seemed to glow in the lamplight, a fiery golden creature, magnificent. “You did so much more than that.”

“Seems like you were the one doing it,” Crowley said, touching Aziraphale’s lips lightly with his fingertips. “I didn’t -- it was okay? You liked it?”

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said, feeling a smile creep over his face, “I  _ loved _ it.” He kissed Crowley’s fingers. “I only hope you…”

“It was good,” Crowley said, dropping his gaze and petting idly down Aziraphale’s belly. His eyes narrowed as he dragged his fingers through Aziraphale’s spend, then brought them up for Aziraphale to taste. Aziraphale closed his eyes and sucked, humming. “It -- it’s still good.” Crowley snapped away the mess, and then -- “Oh, Satan, your poor knees!”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale stirred, drowsy and dazed. His primary feeling was one of overwhelming, giddying contentedness, a sort of intensified version of the usual post-orgasmic sleepy satiety. Crowley’s words forced him to grope beyond this, feeling out the underlying sensations in his body, until — “I don’t mind,” he murmured. “I like it.” 

“You  _ like  _ it?” Crowley’s tone, initially, was incredulous, but then he seemed to catch himself, and he reiterated, more cautiously: “You like it? Your knees are red raw, kitten.” 

“Mmm.” Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against Crowley’s bony shoulder and stretched. “Tingles. It’s all...hot.” He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s clavicle, the ridge of it smooth and prominent under his lips. “Reminds me what I — what you’ve given me.” 

He was not, he knew, at his most articulate. Like this, he never was. But Crowley breathed out, hard, and then gathered Aziraphale up in his arms, kissing his cheek, and then his neck. 

“Still, it’s — let me clean you up? I could miracle it away, or—" 

“No,” Aziraphale protested, wriggling closer. “No, I want it. I want it. Crowley?” 

“I’ve got you,” Crowley told him, immediately, and kissed him, a soft, clinging thing. “Got you, sweetheart. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

His beautiful hands described smooth circles up and down Aziraphale’s back; his breath was warm against Aziraphale’s cheek, then his throat. Aziraphale luxuriated in it, the slow swelling of familiar bliss made all the more intense because of the fact of Crowley at the heart of it —  _ Crowley.  _ Always, when he’d drifted like this, he’d yearned for Crowley’s arms around him, Crowley’s voice in his ear. To finally have both was a joy beyond measure. 

Some indeterminate length of time passed. Aziraphale breathed slowly, deeply, feeling warmth ebb and flow through his body. His mind felt blank, gloriously at peace. Still waters. Eventually, Crowley shifted under him, and Aziraphale was vaguely aware of being moved, and then gently resettled. Then there was something warm and damp touching him, passing very gently over the abraded skin of his knees. It stung, merging into the overall warmth enveloping him. Stirring, Aziraphale saw Crowley crouched with a washcloth in one long-fingered hand. 

Recognising Aziraphale's attention, Crowley smiled up at him, and, God, there was nothing Aziraphale wouldn't do for the promise of that smile. The warmth in Crowley's golden eyes; the clean line of his teeth. The laugh-lines that betrayed him. Aziraphale smiled back, unbidden, and Crowley kissed him, very softly, on the pale inside of one knee. 

"Don't bother yourself, angel," he said. "Just cleaning you up. You're nearly bleeding here. But I'll take care of it."

Aziraphale relaxed back onto the sofa in a giddy haze, warm everywhere under Crowley’s touch as he gently bandaged his knees. He sighed and scrunched into the cushions. Crowley retrieved the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over him.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said, still smiling. “I could get used to it.”

\--

For the next several days, they were so solicitous of one another it was almost awkward. Crowley brought him an elaborate breakfast in bed, eggs and toast and bacon and porridge and fruit and coffee, and then tucked himself up next to him and watched him eat it, stealing the occasional bite. Aziraphale went to the local nursery and brought home several exotics Crowley had been talking about trying out in his new greenhouse, along with special food and equipment for their care. All their casual caresses had returned, but each was freighted now with additional import, almost like the very first week of their new relationship, when everything had changed the first time. Every touch was gentle and careful, and behind each one flickered the question of something more.

Aziraphale had not known he could be so happy. He had thought so once before, but here he was again, shocked anew by Crowley’s generosity, the seemingly endless depths of his love. Some of the floating feeling stayed with him, longer than it ever had. And yet, the very fact that Crowley had been willing to do This for him, to give him this thing he craved, had nourished a deeper craving in him that he was only beginning to understand. Somehow, he needed to earn what Crowley was giving him.

Aziraphale’s fingers trembled in Crowley’s hair as he pulled him in for a kiss, one morning in the kitchen, and the kiss abruptly turned quite filthy as Crowley opened his mouth and slid his tongue in, deep and wet, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders. He spun them about and pinned Aziraphale against the counter, the hard ridge of it digging into Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s waist and breathed him in.

“I want you,” Crowley muttered, scraping his teeth along Aziraphale’s jaw. Crowley rocked his hips and Aziraphale could feel him already hard against his thigh. He shivered delightedly. This admission, so simple and so welcome, was new. In the past, it would have been “What do you want?” Now, Crowley was making his own desire paramount. As it should be, Aziraphale thought, and fairly swooned.

“Yes, my dearest,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, and then, taking a deep breath, “I am -- yours to command.”

Crowley hissed in a quick breath -- caught unawares, perhaps? Aroused, Aziraphale dearly hoped -- and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands. His eyes were piercing gold, pupils enlarged. “Are you now.”

Then, striking like a serpent, he laid a fierce bite into Aziraphale’s throat, just below his ear. The sensitive flesh prickled and ached as Crowley’s teeth pressed in dully for a moment, and then there was the most delicious sharpness as he sucked up the skin and worried it. Aziraphale was hard in an instant. “Oh, yes, my love,” he breathed. “I am utterly yours. Do what you like with me.”

Crowley groaned into his neck and pressed his hips into Aziraphale’s, threading his thigh between Aziraphale’s and riding there for a moment, breath hitching. The certainty of Crowley’s desire for him, unchanged for all these millennia and unquenched even now, sent a warm wash of gratitude through Aziraphale. Quick on its heels, the guilt. He melted under Crowley’s touch and waited as patiently as he could for direction.

As always, Crowley was quick to give him what he needed. He kissed his lips once more, gently, and said, “Turn around, and take down your trousers and pants.”

Hastily, Aziraphale did as he was told, relief beginning to take hold. This state of partial undress was somewhat undignified, and that added a frisson to the experience. The kitchen was chilly and gooseflesh rose on his thighs. His prick was already feeling stretched, yearning.

“Lovely.” Crowley’s voice was rough behind him, and Aziraphale thrilled to it, and to the praise. He felt Crowley rucking up his shirt, then light touches over him. “Ah, I’ll never get enough of this gorgeous arse.” Then the sensation of Crowley taking hold of his buttocks in both hands, squeezing, digging the nails in. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and pushed back into Crowley’s grip. “Oh, you like that, do you?”

“Yes, yes, please,” he begged.

Crowley dug in harder and Aziraphale cried out happily at the tension in it, the sting. Then Crowley released him and dragged his nails down Aziraphale’s arse. He clenched hungrily at nothing as the raking sensation abraded his skin, leaving him flushing, the heat roaring all up and down him.

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley murmured. Then, “bend over the counter and hold onto the far edge, over your head.”

Aziraphale arranged himself carefully, pressing his cock and then his body slowly against the cold marble and reaching to grip the edge of the countertop across from him. He could just barely reach, staying on the flats of his feet. His cheekbone ground against the hard surface. This would not be a comfortable position to hold for long, but he could do it. He would do it, and be glad.

He had no idea what would come next, he realised. He had been in this position many times before, but always with a clear understanding and in anticipation of a sound thrashing. Crowley had never struck him. He wasn’t sure that Crowley ever would. What would happen now? Crowley could do anything he liked, anything at all -- and this discovery, made in this moment in spite of his having promised it just minutes before, sent a flood of pre-ejaculate through his cock and a flood of heat to his brain.

He felt Crowley moving behind him, then his hands ghosting over his arse again, over the sensitized skin and the small marks he had made with his nails. Then he seized Aziraphale’s buttocks again and gripped fiercely, driving his fingers in. “So many times, my dove, you said the cruellest things to me. Never letting me forget that I was a demon and you were an angel, blaming me for the worst excesses of humanity. And all the time I knew you loved me as much as I loved you.”

The warmth and weight of Crowley’s body were draped over him now, one of Crowley’s hands moving up to jerk his tie roughly undone. “It was bloody torture,” Crowley hissed in his ear.

Aziraphale melted with miserable gratitude under Crowley’s body grinding him into the implacable rock of the countertop. His cock felt almost as hard, barely yielding against the pressure. “I know it. I was awful. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.  _ Please. _ ”

Crowley had his collar unbuttoned and was sucking gorgeous bruising kisses into his neck and shoulder. He would have marks, he realised with delight as Crowley claimed him.  _ Crowley _ was marking him. He felt the blunt scrape of Crowley’s teeth and then the blessed weight of him was gone. And then cool slick strokes at his anus as Crowley prepared him, gentle as always. “All that time, all I ever wanted was to take care of you. You, my heart.” 

Crowley entered him with two fingers and Aziraphale moaned. So sweet, so very close to what he craved. He pushed back against Crowley’s hand, begging with his body now, knowing he didn’t deserve this kindness, this pleasure.

Without warning, Aziraphale caught in the corner of his vision a quick movement of Crowley’s left hand as he grabbed for the mason jar where they stored various cooking utensils. There was something in his hand -- a wooden spoon --

_ Smack! _ A hard, wonderfully stingy crack across the buttocks made Aziraphale gasp and flinch against the counter. His fingertips were slippery against its edge now, and he struggled to hold on.

“Is that --”

“Yes, yes!” Aziraphale would grovel for more if he had to.

Crowley struck him again, another stinging smack, the bowl of the spoon adding a deeper thud to the sensation, and Aziraphale grunted, his arse bouncing deliciously as the vibration traveled through him. Again, harder this time, and Aziraphale cried out happily. He could feel the ache beginning in his arms and shoulders, too, as he held the position Crowley had demanded. He was starting to fly.

There was a clatter as the spoon hit the floor, then the sound of Crowley’s zip. “You luscious creature,” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale felt the tip of his cock nudging him open. “Stay right where you are. I can’t wait for you any longer, not one single second.”

“I’m right here for you, my darling,” Aziraphale panted. “Take me.”

And oh, the hard breadth of Crowley, pushing into him, slick and smooth and so beautifully aching. He was full, everywhere; overflowing. They both groaned as Crowley reached his full depth, and Crowley paused for a moment, one hand on Aziraphale’s hip, the other on his shoulder. “Look at you. Ah, look at you.” He slid out slowly, then pressed in fast and hard, making Aziraphale gasp and buck against him, his prick throbbing against the counter. “You’re  _ mine. _ ”

“Yours,” Aziraphale echoed, and came, surging with joy.

Crowley fucked him through it, as Aziraphale floated on waves of pleasure, his body continuing to spasm around Crowley’s cock. He felt Crowley’s hands clutching him hard, cock working in him, his voice breaking with his cries, his words: “Aziraphale, oh, sweet love -- ah! Ah!” 

Dimly, Aziraphale was aware of Crowley’s belly pressing rhythmically against his back as he breathed, Crowley’s lips printing kisses along his shoulderblades, the shivery place where his wings sprouted. Crowley held him fast around the waist and hips for an indeterminate length of time, and then slid his hands up Aziraphale’s stretched arms. He was still gripping the countertop, he thought. He had lost sensation in his fingers.

“Hey, hey, angel. Let go. You can let go now.”

“Mmmm?” What were words, anyhow?

Crowley was prying up his fingers, rubbing blood into his hands, helping him to stand up. Aziraphale missed Crowley’s cock inside him and let out a petulant whine. 

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Miss you,” Aziraphale mumbled, and threw his arms around Crowley. Crowley laughed, and this was music and magic and perfection and the best thing that had happened to him all day. Even better than being spanked with a wooden spoon.

“I’m right here. How can you miss me?” Crowley’s fingers were under his chin, tilting his head up. Aziraphale tried to focus on his lovely yellow gaze but his eyes kept wanting to close. “Hm, I shouldn’t ask that. Story of our lives, innit.” Crowley’s lips touched his, and then he was in Crowley’s arms again, and they seemed to be moving down the hallway. Aziraphale didn’t pay much attention. He was home. They were home. Everything was wonderful.

He couldn't work out how far down the corridor they had gone. He couldn't even, he now found, remember how long it actually was, or how it connected to the kitchen, or what led off from it. He also felt blissfully unconcerned about any of this: Crowley's grip on him was firm and sure, all wiry strength. He had no doubt that, wherever they were, Crowley would get them to where they needed to be. This sort of trusting certainty was like a drug that only intensified as it penetrated into Aziraphale's consciousness, his body responding to it unquestioningly. 

When they reached the bathroom, Aziraphale allowed himself to be deposited on the lip of the bath, and then simply sat there while Crowley moved around him, turning on taps and fiddling with the plug. It wasn't a surprise to him that they were here. At the same time, he hadn't expected it. It just was. 

Crowley held up two bottles for his inspection. "Magnolia, or geranium?" 

Aziraphale blinked, then realised slowly that he was being asked to make a decision. It felt as if the capacity to do so was slightly out of his grasp just at the moment. Crowley seemed to correctly parse the look on his face, however, because he quickly set one bottle down and opened the other. 

"Never mind, angel -- daft question. Let's have magnolia. Makes you smell all milky and sweet." 

"And you," Aziraphale pointed out, smiling a little. 

"Hmm?" Crowley was swirling the bath cream through the water, now, his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows and his hands dragging through the water in perfunctory figures of eight, as if to make sure all was evenly spread. Solicitous as ever. 

"You'll be milky and sweet, too," Aziraphale clarified, tipping slightly to the side to press his thigh against Crowley's arm. "Aren't you getting in with me?" 

Crowley hesitated a second, but only a second. "Course. Look, this stuff --" he held out a small tube of bath oil for Aziraphale's cursory inspection -- "is 'Delicate Oat,' apparently. I'll whack some of this in as well. Then we can be Delicate Oats together. Arms up?" 

Crowley liked baths, Aziraphale thought dreamily, doing as instructed. He liked the warmth of them; sometimes he'd catch a chill on a draughty evening and a hot bath was the only thing that ever seemed to fix it. 

He hadn't noticed Crowley stripping him of his shirt, but now he saw that it was neatly folded on the hamper in the corner of the room. He let Crowley pull his vest over his head and then leaned in impulsively to press his forehead against Crowley's flat stomach. "Nice to me," he murmured. 

Crowley's big hand settled on the back of his head, protective. "Well, you're nice, aren't you?" 

Something niggled at the edges of Aziraphale's awareness. For the most part, his mind felt placid, untroubled as a bowl of milk, but there were little ripples picking up at the edges, just barely. "Not always," he pointed out. "You said." 

"Shhh." Crowley bent to kiss his forehead, then quickly dispensed with his own shirt and shimmied his slightly ridiculous jeans down over the spurs of his hips. "Love you. Come on." 

He let Crowley rid him of the rest of his clothes, pliant as a doll. Then Crowley helped him into the bath and guided him to sit. Aziraphale, absurdly, felt the loss of him the moment he was seated at Crowley's feet, Crowley at his back and out of sight; but then Crowley slithered down behind him and pulled Aziraphale back against him and all was immediately well again. 

Better than well. Crowley's long arms were around Aziraphale's shoulders, his knees bracketing Aziraphale's. His soft cock pressed sweetly against the small of Aziraphale's back and his collarbone presented itself as the perfect place for Aziraphale to rest his head. Crowley kissed his temple, growing damp now with the steam from the bath, and Aziraphale sighed in bliss. 

"Let's get you washed off." 

If this had required moving, Aziraphale might have summoned the strength to protest. He was so comfortable like this, he had no desire at all to be disturbed. But Crowley only reached for the sponge which sat on the side of the bath, and began gently, diligently applying it. Aziraphale felt the muscles shift in Crowley's chest and arms as he carefully sponged Aziraphale's underarms, one at a time, and then across his chest and stomach where a trace of semen still adhered. When he reached his prick, he abandoned the sponge, letting it float away on the surface of the water while he wrapped his hand around Aziraphale's shaft, then gently worked the foreskin back and forth with his thumb, ridding it of all traces of their kitchen activities. Aziraphale was soft and, for now, spent, but the sensation was still mildly pleasant, and he made a low sound to this effect. 

"Greedy angel," Crowley said, and Aziraphale half laughed. 

"As if that could ever surprise you, dear."

He was beginning to come back to himself, he recognised. The warm, almost intoxicated feeling still predominated, but his thoughts no longer seemed so slippery and wordless. Crowley's hand left his cock, moving to grope along his thigh, and Aziraphale felt alert enough to observe that the sponge had not been re-employed. 

"Now you're just feeling me up," he grumbled, drowsily and without heat. 

"So what?" Crowley demanded, palming Aziraphale's belly, then his chest. He found one pink nipple and rubbed his thumb over it, a warm, wet slide. "You're mine, aren't you? I can feel you up if I want. I can do anything I like with you." 

He sounded -- lazily confident, and it made Aziraphale's stomach dip hotly, even now, sated as he was. 

"You can, you know," he whispered. "I'd let you. You deserve it. I  _ want  _ you to." 

Crowley purred in his ear, squeezed him. “And I want to. But…” He paused, then kissed Aziraphale’s ear. “It’s a two-way deal, angel; you know that. I’m yours, too.” 

Aziraphale pressed back into his arms. He couldn’t hold in his smile. “To do anything I like with?” 

“Anything,” Crowley swore. “We were made for each other. Nobody else. That’s the whole point.” 

The warm drifting sensation was eclipsed by a radiant glow emanating from Aziraphale's heart, which gave a little squeeze, almost painful, entirely welcome. Aziraphale groped clumsily for Crowley's hand and brought it to his lips, still smiling.

"How are you, my dearest?" he asked after a while.

"Pruney," Crowley said wryly, kissing the top of his head. But Aziraphale wouldn't let him slither out of this.

"We'll get out in a minute. But -- " he pressed Crowley's hand;  _ be serious for a moment  _ \-- "how was it for you?"

Crowley exhaled slowly, his chest expanding against Aziraphale's back. "Strange. Wonderful. Amazingly hot." He returned the pressure of Aziraphale's fingers. "A bit scary."

Aziraphale seemed to chime, internally, with each of these adjectives. "Can you -- do you want to -- talk about it?"

Another breath. "Yeah... I can do that. Think we probably should. Only, I wanna be out of this bath for it."

Aziraphale slid forward a little to allow Crowley to stand, feeling slightly bereft but able to bear it. Indeed, he felt strong. Whole. Whatever was coming, whatever Crowley felt, he could bear it. They were together in this, as in everything now. Their own side, always.

Crowley helped him out of the bath and miracled them both dry. Aziraphale would ordinarily prefer a towel, but he was too busy admiring his bruises in the mirror -- beautiful purple blossoms on his neck and shoulders, and an egg-shaped red mark low on his left buttock where the spoon had made its impact. He could see the faint red lines from Crowley’s nails, too, and smiled as he ran his hands over them.

He caught Crowley’s expression in the mirror; he was wincing a bit. Aziraphale met his eyes and his expression softened. “I shall wear these with pride,” Aziraphale said stoutly.

Crowley leant down to press a kiss to one of the love bites, and Aziraphale melted into the ache. Then he took Crowley by the hand and led him into the bedroom. They were both still naked. Aziraphale felt brave this way now, and he didn’t want to lose the feeling.

They sat on the bed, facing one another.

“Tell me what was wonderful,” Aziraphale began.

“Oh, angel, I can’t --” Crowley smiled and, unaccountably, blushed. “Ugh, I’ll try. Er. It’s -- it’s like I said. All I’ve ever wanted is to take care of you. And this -- this is taking care of you. I can see that, I can feel it now. And that’s, that’s lovely.” The corner of his mouth barely quirked up in the soft, closed, nascent smile that Aziraphale had once worked very hard to earn.

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand and pressed it gently, feeling so tender and so grateful he didn’t know quite what to do with himself. “Oh, Crowley,” he managed.

Crowley looked down at their joined hands. “But I -- I said some other things, too.” 

“Was that what was strange?”

“It was. I didn’t know -- angel, I haven’t been angry with you, not like that. I’d never strike you in anger. You know that, right?” Crowley’s voice had risen in pitch, and he looked up at Aziraphale now, face strained, eyes wide.

Aziraphale returned his gaze steadily. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I understand you, my dear. I am finding myself saying -- and feeling -- all sorts of things I didn’t expect.”

Crowley's amber eyes narrowed in interest. He leaned forward, apparently unconsciously, further into the bubble of Aziraphale's personal space. "Oh?" He sounded intrigued. "But you've done this before. What didn't you expect?" 

Aziraphale laughed, unthinking, and had to stop himself before Crowley got the wrong idea. It was just that the thought of anything that had come before being comparable to this -- to being with Crowley --  _ was  _ laughable; there were no two ways about it. But Crowley, he reminded himself, wasn't to know that. "I haven't done  _ this  _ before," he pointed out. "Or rather, it — it wasn't like this, the other times." 

Crowley sat still for a moment, taking this in. "Am I doing it wrong? Because I'll -- I'm a quick learner, I'll --" 

"No!" Aziraphale broke in immediately, squeezing Crowley's hands tightly between his own. "No, no.  _ No.  _ You're doing wonderfully." 

Crowley ventured to meet his eyes again, one corner of his mouth lifting hopefully, and Aziraphale smiled at him until Crowley, however ruefully, returned it. 

"It's just," Aziraphale said softly, "whenever I did this with other people, it was -- even the parts of it that felt very deep, very much a part of me, felt superficial compared to doing it with you. Because you -- you  _ are  _ the heart of me, dear. Do you understand? And I was always thinking of you." 

The look on Crowley's face was at once hopeful and pained. "Thinking of me when you went to strangers to be hurt?" 

"To be forgiven," Aziraphale said, softly, and as the words passed his lips, he knew they were true. "To be -- to be given what I needed, to make me worthy. To have it acknowledged that, yes, I'd done stupid, cruel, awful things to someone who didn't deserve them, but that here, here was something that could be done about it. And I love it, the pain of it, because it feels as if it's working. And then afterwards, being looked after, as if I'd done well…" 

He trailed off. Crowley hesitated a moment, and then laid one long hand against his cheek. "You did so, so well, angel," he said, his voice rasping. He swallowed, the motion visible in his slender throat. "You've done nothing you need my forgiveness for." 

Aziraphale's head snapped up, and he met Crowley's eye assuredly, urgently. "Oh, but, Crowley, that's exactly it. I need  _ your  _ forgiveness, for all the -- all the things I've done to you. You said it yourself, when we were...and I  _ needed  _ you to say it, my darling. I need you to tell me you remember every hurt I've ever caused you, and have you give the pain back to me. And then I -- I don't deserve it, but I need you to show me that you still love me anyway. That you'll take care of me, however stupid and unworthy I may be." 

“But you’re --” Crowley began, and then stopped. His hand was warm where it cupped Aziraphale’s face. His thumb stroked over Aziraphale’s bottom lip. “I think I understand.” He pulled Aziraphale forward, into an embrace, Aziraphale’s head against his chest. “I want to give you what you need,” he said quietly.

“And what do you need, dear heart?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ah, angel, that’s -- “ Crowley blew out a great breath. “That’s so much harder to say.”

“Will you try? For me?”

He felt Crowley tense and then relax against him, press a kiss to the top of his head. “I -- want to give you what you need and I, I think I want to -- to hear those apologies you’ve been making, when I -- when I.” Crowley’s fingers tightened and released against his shoulders. “I think I like that. Not gonna lie, angel, it troubles me. Thought I was past all that.”

Aziraphale pulled away to look at Crowley’s dear face, now creased with worry. He stroked at the deep lines in Crowley’s forehead, trying to smooth them away. “Does it help to know it doesn’t trouble me? That I want you to want it?”

“Hm. Not sure.” Crowley was still frowning.

“That’s what you want, you said. What do you need?”

“I need -- I need...angel, is this what it’s going to be like, from now on? Because I --” Crowley looked frightened and sad and Aziraphale couldn’t bear it.

“Are you asking if I want you to dominate me every time we make love?”

“I just -- I don’t think I can --”

“Oh, Crowley, no, of course you can’t! And I would never want that either.” Crowley’s face collapsed in relief and he hugged Aziraphale to him.

“Oh, thank G - Somebody. Thank  _ you _ . I couldn’t give it up, you know, taking care of you in all the other ways.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley and planted a kiss against his chest. “And letting me take care of you, I think, sometimes.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale up on top of him and fell backward onto the bed, smiling a relieved smile that made Aziraphale feel tender and generous. “Yes. Please. If you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale laughed and kissed him. “With the greatest pleasure, my love. But perhaps some lunch first?"

"Are you hungry, angel?" 

Aziraphale considered this. Beneath him, Crowley was all soft-eyed and solicitous, the Venetian red of his hair like fire against the white pillow. So many years, Aziraphale had yearned to touch it. He did so now, pushing his fingers into the thick of it, and Crowley closed his eyes, his back arching slightly. 

"That a no?" Crowley murmured. His thighs had gone loose, letting Aziraphale tuck in closer between, and Aziraphale shivered at the trust there, the easy surrender. Of course,  _ of course  _ he could never give that up. 

He kissed Crowley's neck, mouthing at the pale line of it. "It's a...well. I don't need food especially badly. Other things, on the other hand…" 

"Flatterer," Crowley said, his voice a low growl. His eyes were still closed, his lashes long and dark on his cheeks. Demons never let their guard down -- slept with their eyes open. The fact that Crowley could lie here like this, with him -- Aziraphale felt his chest fill. His cock, too, began to swell in sympathy, unable to unpick strong emotion from arousal when it came to Crowley. The two things had been too long entwined. 

"You know, darling, don't you," Aziraphale said, "how much I love fucking you?" 

Beneath him, Crowley shifted, lips parting, and Aziraphale swallowed, pressed his thickening cock against the shallow of Crowley's belly. 

"I used to dream about it," he said in a rush, confessional. "You underneath me, dear, opening for me. The sounds you'd make when I pressed inside you, and the way you'd writhe and beg for me." 

" _ Angel,"  _ Crowley said, breathless, and his hips bucked, just enough that Aziraphale could feel the wet drag of Crowley's cockhead against his own belly, the heat of it. "You know I will, if that's what you want. I'll beg you for all of it." 

"I don't want you to," said Aziraphale softly, and leaned up to kiss Crowley's mouth again, thrilling when Crowley opened so easily, as always, for his tongue. He caught Crowley's lower lip between his teeth and tugged at it gently, then sucked, and Crowley squirmed beneath him in a sort of directionless ecstasy. "I just want to love you, darling. I want to give you everything you want." 

"You do," Crowley moaned, lifting one long leg to bracket Aziraphale's waist, hold him down. "You do, only -- are you all talk and no trousers just now, or is this --?" 

Aziraphale laughed despite himself, and only laughed more when Crowley opened his eyes and rather crossly took Aziraphale's face in both hands and pulled him in for another kiss. When Crowley released him, Aziraphale looked at him, open-faced, and said: "I'm so lucky to have you." 

"Too right," Crowley drawled, but his expression softened the blunt edges of his voice. His eyes were goldenrod-yellow, their pupils fat black ovals. "Why don't you show me, sweetheart?" 

It was easy, then, to spread Crowley's milk-white thighs with his hands; to shoulder in between them and rub his miracle-slick fingers in slow circles over the clench of his hole until Crowley keened and lifted his hips:  _ get on with it.  _ Aziraphale bit him near the hip for his temerity and then did as he was told all the same, which, he had to admit, was rather a trait of his.  _ Oh, I mustn't,  _ he'd demurred over the millennia, as he undertook the forbidden thing. 

Crowley opened for him with a great sigh, the hot embrace of him pitching Aziraphale’s arousal into a higher key. “Yes, yes,” Crowley groaned, head tipped back among the pillows, exposing the long arc of his throat.

“Oh, my love, I could never give this up, never,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his open mouth to Crowley’s neck, chest, shoulders. His prick, barely touched for many weeks, thrilled and throbbed in Crowley’s heat. “Oh, you feel  _ divine _ .”

He worked his hips slowly, savouring the gentle friction of the leisurely slide, and watched Crowley come apart beneath him. Crowley was sweating and moaning and rocking his hips to meet Aziraphale’s tender thrusts, flushed a delicate pink from belly to ears, his gorgeous long prick raging red and leaking all over him. “Not half -- uhh -- so good as you feel,” he grunted, groping for Aziraphale’s shoulder and gripping tightly.

Aziraphale pushed back Crowley’s beautiful taut thighs, angling his hips properly and varying his thrusts until Crowley cried out.

“There, dearest?”

“Don’t stop,” Crowley panted.

“Never,” Aziraphale assured him, picking up the pace, relishing the tight slick sensation of Crowley all around him, still thrilling with wonder at being allowed this. He was inside Crowley. It was a miracle.

Crowley gave soft sharp cries with every downstroke now, and Aziraphale reached for his wet prick eagerly. Crowley whimpered as his hand closed around it and began to slide back and forth. The sound of him pierced Aziraphale’s heart and set his cock aflame, driving him into a faster rhythm. He stroked Crowley more firmly.

“Angel, angel -- “

“I love you.”

Crowley tensed all over, arched off the bed, and came with a yell that modulated into a series of gasps. Aziraphale drank it all in, heart blooming, and followed him over, crying Crowley’s name as love and sensation overcame him.

Afterwards, for a time, they only drifted. Aziraphale pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s long throat and breathed in the scent of him, the cinnamon edge to his sweat. At length, when they were both breathing normally again, Aziraphale slid his hand up Crowley’s sternum and lifted his head, just slightly, to smile at him. 

“All right?” 

Crowley exhaled shakily. “More than. You’re fishing, you know that?” 

“Mm.” Aziraphale drew his forefinger slowly over Crowley’s nipple, teasing it into a little peak. “Have I caught anything?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking fantastic in bed. How’s that? I love your cock.” Then his face softened, and he smiled. “It’s true, though. That was gorgeous.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, kissing his chest, “you deserve it.” 

“Oh?” Crowley was toying with his hair now, curling locks of it around his finger. 

“Such ingenuity, dear. A wooden spoon! That was very clever, you know. I’d never have thought of it.”

“That was Tracy’s idea, actually. Said not to spend money on fancy gear when there was perfectly serviceable stuff lying about the house.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “You talked to Tracy about this. You did -- “ he felt a teasing smile break over his face -- “ _ research! _ ”

Crowley kissed his cheek, his temple, and Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand shift to cup the back of his head, caressing. “‘Course I did. And I won’t be mocked for a swot, not where your pleasure’s concerned. To say nothing of my dignity.”

Aziraphale nuzzled into Crowley’s kisses. “I am overcome.”

“Shut up. Got to do it properly, don’t I?”

\--

Crowley had done it properly. Not just the thrashing, but the care, the confessions. Aziraphale marvelled at Crowley’s fearlessness. He had always admired his courage, the way he brushed off Aziraphale’s concerns for their safety, the way he strode (or drove) gamely into danger and risked pain and disaster for Aziraphale every time. But these emotional heroics were quite beyond anything Aziraphale had ever imagined.

He too was feeling brave -- and more comfortable in his human skin than he could ever remember feeling. With their first kiss the weight of Aziraphale’s biggest secret had dropped from him; but now he felt free from so many niggling doubts and discomforts, some that had been so routine for so long he had scarcely noticed them until they were gone. He was a new angel, almost: at his ease, tranquil, and yet brimming with such happiness that he was almost giddy.

Making love to Crowley, returning to the tender passion that Crowley needed, had been a revelation. How amazing to think that just a few weeks ago he had been frustrated! Now Aziraphale understood that without this foundation he could never have felt able to ask for the other thing -- and that, being able to have This, at last, from Crowley, he would always want to return to the gentleness too. It wasn’t only Crowley who needed it.

It was as Crowley had said, after all. They had been made for one another. Once upon a time, Aziraphale had thought the idea heretical, but now he couldn't imagine how it could be untrue. An angel and a demon, set upon a wall together at the beginning of the world. A perfect balance. Crowley held him up. Aziraphale only had to make sure he was always there to hold Crowley up, too. 

\-- 

A week passed. Aziraphale was in the kitchen, frowning at a recipe book which assured him that making a souffle wasn't as hard as all that, when Crowley came up behind him, snaked both arms around his waist, and kissed the back of his neck. In and of itself, the action wasn't so unusual as to make Aziraphale break off what he was doing. But then the kiss became a bite, the edge of Crowley's teeth scraping over sensitive skin, and then Crowley said, low, "I've got something for you, angel. If you want it." 

Whatever it was, Aziraphale instantly, desperately wanted it. 

In their bedroom, Crowley opened the door of the wardrobe, looking over his shoulder at Aziraphale with something like nervousness. But there was excitement there, too, and Aziraphale felt rather flushed as he settled himself on the bed to await his surprise. 

When Crowley turned around, there was a box in his hands. It was long and slender, the sort of thing that might be used for presentation roses, and Crowley's cheeks were slightly pink as he laid it on the bed. 

"I wasn't sure what sort you preferred," he said, apologetic, "so I got three. Hopefully one of them will be to your taste." 

Aziraphale looked up at him, wide-eyed, digesting this. What was Crowley doing to him -- doing  _ for  _ him? His chest felt warm and heavy with it. He laid a hand on the box and, when Crowley nodded insistently, untied the ribbon that neatly held it closed, and lifted the lid. 

Inside, nestled in a bed of pristine white silk, were three canes. One was very slender, a rattan, Aziraphale thought. Another was heavier; a dragon cane. The third was synthetic -- nylon, probably. Aziraphale had never been hit with anything synthetic. His skin prickled, intrigued. 

Above him, Crowley was still looking at him intently, eyes wide. "Well?" he prompted. "What do you think?" 

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale managed, when he could speak again, "I'm -- I love them. I want you to use all of them. If you want to." 

Crowley's mouth curved in a smile. There was still uncertainty in it, but to Aziraphale's experienced eye, there was relief, too. "One at a time, Aziraphale. I've only got two hands." 

Aziraphale laughed. He felt awash with love, beautifully and unjustly indulged. “Well then, if I must choose. The rattan, please.” 

“Ah.” Crowley’s eyes were warm as he took it from its case. “Tracy said you’d probably go for this one. Springier, she said. The thick one’s — what was it? Thuddier. Like a massage. But you like the zing, don’t you, pet? Like to be  _ switched.”  _

Aziraphale’s breath caught. Crowley’s tone had changed, going from something light, almost unsure, to something warmer and deeper.  _ Pet.  _ He smiled, sinking into it. “You know me.” 

“I think I’m starting to.” Crowley drew the cane up, held it upright in front of his face. “Only took me six thousand years. And some lessons.” 

“You’ve had —?” 

Crowley threw him a look, admonishing. “You think I’d go anywhere near your perfect arse untutored, with this? Be reasonable, lover.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t bite back the smile that threatened to split his face. “I suppose not. You always did like to do your due diligence.” 

“Speaking of which,” Crowley said, laying the cane down again. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, looking at it lying there on the bed, Crowley’s long hand lingering on the shaft. “I have to ask you to give me a safe word, pet.” Crowley reached toward Aziraphale and tilted his chin up, meeting his eyes. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“A safe word,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, fighting the urge to float away on a sea of dreamy bliss already. “You know, when I started all This, such a thing was never thought of. It was a century before people began to insist on it.”

Crowley stroked his chin lightly with his thumb. “And what word did you give them?”

“The safest word I know. ‘Crowley.’”

Crowley’s eyes glistened for a moment, and then he smiled as radiant as the sun. “I think you can see that that won’t work here,” he chuckled. “What else makes you feel safe? Your bookshop? Tea?”

It was hard to imagine using any such mundane words for this purpose. Only something special would do, something that still meant Crowley, somehow. “Hamlet.” 

"Interesting choice," Crowley said, lips quirking. 

"Not something I'd be likely to say by accident," Aziraphale pointed out. There was a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach, now. He tried to smile back. "Now -- were we…?" 

"Trying to give me orders, angel?" Lazily, Crowley undid the buttons at his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves. The hair on his forearms was soft and pale and glinted in the light. Aziraphale wanted to press his mouth to every one of the freckles that dusted the fair skin like constellations. 

"I would never," he protested faintly. His throat had gone dry; he could feel his cock stirring in his trousers, swelling against the seam. Crowley, too, noticed this, and smiled. 

"Glad to hear it. Take your clothes off for me, please. Slow." 

The  _ please,  _ for some reason, made Aziraphale's knees weak. He hastened to obey, undoing the buttons of his shirt at speed and thanking whatever powers might be that he hadn't bothered to put on his waistcoat yet today. Shirt first -- he felt he needed to remind himself, in case his mind grew muddled with lust in the middle of it -- then tie, belt, trousers. Through it all, Crowley watched him indulgently, golden-eyed and gorgeous. Only when he was quite naked did Crowley pick up the cane again, and Aziraphale's stomach abruptly performed a needy little flip. 

"There's my angel. On the bed, please. Face down." 

Aziraphale complied. There was no question of anything else. The air of the room was cool on his skin, prickling up and down the backs of his legs and the insides of his arms. Licking the back of his neck. He thought of Crowley's mouth there -- of Crowley's mouth venturing lower, down the knobs of his spine; curling against his arsehole -- and shivered. Then he felt the tip of the cane, very lightly, come to rest against the soft inside of his knee, and the shiver became a full-body thrill. "Crowley!" 

"Shhh." The cane continued moving. Crowley drew it slowly, slowly, up the inside of Aziraphale's left thigh, almost to his perineum. It came to a halt there, and then traced the undercurve of his arse, gently. "Lie still, sweetheart. You'll get it all in time." 

Aziraphale shivered, Crowley's words and his tone banking a fire in his belly. His gentleness, in combination with the silent threat of the cane, set off a volley of conflicting sensations in him, his skin anticipating a blow even as his mind grew diffuse, drunk on Crowley's warmth. 

The first stroke, when it came, was unexpected. He heard Crowley inhale, as if preparing himself, and then the longed-for flash of heat exploded across his arse, the cane connecting with a sharp  _ crack.  _ Not a hard stroke, but hard enough; Aziraphale cried out immediately, his body jolting on the bed. 

"There you are," Crowley said, his voice low and satisfied. Leaning into it. Aziraphale still had the wherewithal to feel proud of him, amazed by him. The tip of the cane traced the path scorched by the blow, and Aziraphale squirmed. 

"More -- please?" 

Crowley clicked his tongue. "Trying to run the show again, angel? What did I tell you?" The cane meandered over the curve of Aziraphale's arse to the cleft, then followed this downward, making Aziraphale gasp and spread his legs. "Typical of you, that is. Angel wants a lovely, naughty time; better get the demon to do the dirty work so your lily white hands stay clean." The cane came down again, abruptly, twice in quick succession. 

"Ah!" Aziraphale was trembling faintly now, sweating finely. His arse felt hot, exposed; the most recent strokes had caught him flat across the buttocks, a criss-cross of nerve endings set alight and tingling. Beneath him, his prick was hard, as swollen as his arse felt, and Aziraphale writhed again, seeking friction. 

"Hey." Another tap, this time gently, on the outer curve of his arse. "None of that. Up." 

Aziraphale blinked, looking over his shoulder for clarification or reassurance. What he saw was simply Crowley, arms crossed, looking resolute and stormy-browed. "Up," he repeated. "Did I say you could rub off on the bed like the hedonistic little slut you are? No. So, up on your hands and knees."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, faintly, breathless. He did as he was told -- there was no question of not doing so. His cock, already stiff, swelled further against his belly as he pushed himself up. He could feel the precome pulsing out of his slit, his foreskin drawn back tightly, and thought for a moment of Crowley's mouth there, Crowley's clever hands. But --

"That's it," Crowley rasped, and hit him again. This time, the blow was hard enough to reverberate down into Aziraphale's spine, vibrating in his arse. His anus clenched emptily; his cock twitched against his stomach. "This is where you belong, isn't it? Hands and knees, showing off everything you've got." Another blow, and Aziraphale all but wailed, twisting his fingers into the duvet. 

"Yes," he managed, half a sob. "Yes -- Crowley. I'm sorry, I'm --" 

"You're not sorry," Crowley spat. Another blow, and then another, low down at the junction of arse and thigh, the sweet spot. Aziraphale had to bite his lip against the wave of desire that rushed through him. "You like this, don't you?  _ Good  _ little angel, can't possibly be expected to do anything  _ bad.  _ This how you did all those temptations you pretend never happened? Arse in the air? Have 'em fuck you and go to the devil for it?" 

" _ Crowley!"  _ Aziraphale was panting now, lifting his backside instinctively into the rain of strokes Crowley now laid across it, one after the other. "No, I -- I'm  _ sorry,  _ I --" 

"Hypocrite, aren't you?" Crowley said. His voice was thick, low. "'We're not friends. I don't even like you.' But you'd take my help, wouldn't you, and my company? Vile and depraved though I am." 

This was it. Aziraphale could feel himself drifting, out of himself, as Crowley continued his switches. His arse burned; the rough tip of the cane scraped cruelly over the abused skin and Aziraphale was dizzy with it, shaking. "You aren't," he moaned. His cheeks were wet; only when he turned his face and salt water met his lips did he realise he was crying. "I'm sorry, Crowley, I'm sorry. We're the same."

He felt wretched, but something about it was so painfully welcome that he couldn't help but wallow in it. The tip of Crowley's cane stilled, skirted the cleft of his arse, and Aziraphale arched his back helplessly, not  _ expecting,  _ but yearning. When Crowley's fingers brushed, with unaccustomed gentleness, over the pucker of his anus, his breath caught. 

"What's that?" Crowley prompted, and Aziraphale struggled to remember himself -- to remember anything. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead to the bed. " _ We're the same,  _ just the same. Please forgive me, please...please…" 

"Are we, angel?" Crowley breathed. "Do you trust me, then? Enough to let me in?" 

Then, quite unexpectedly, he felt the cool drizzle of some kind of unguent on his anus, and the sensation of it stopped his breath even before Crowley's fingers followed, pushing inside him in one hard, unyielding glide. 

Aziraphale moaned -- couldn't help it. It was too much and too perfect all at once, more than he deserved, and his cock pulsed desperately at the way it felt, the pressure inside him. He pushed back onto the thick thrust of it, heedless of the threat of the cane inches away, tracing the upper curve of his arse. He shouldn't misbehave, but oh, Crowley was rubbing hard over his prostate, now, hooking his fingers there -- almost coaxing. Aziraphale spread his thighs instinctively, feeling the pain and the pleasure blend together into a single, perfect thing. 

"Angel," Crowley said. His voice seemed an echo of itself, like a dream. The ache in Aziraphale's arse had transmuted itself into something else now, something warm and deep that seemed to filter out to his fingers and toes, into the roots of his hair. Aziraphale wanted more of it; more of Crowley's voice from above, in command and in control. He lifted his hips, seeking, and the cane struck again, more gently this time. Aziraphale felt the thud of it in his spine, in his teeth. All the constituent parts of his body seemed to shift and then reconfigure their relationship to the core of him when he was like this. He was nowhere, floating; but at the same time, he was everywhere. And to have Crowley with him, Crowley's big hand gently tracing over the marks he'd made -- Crowley -- 

"I forgive you," Crowley said, soft. The words seemed to sink into Aziraphale's bones, and he collapsed on the bed, shaking. His knees could no longer hold him. 

"Come on, sweetheart _ ,"  _ Crowley said. The tone of his voice flickered at Aziraphale's ears, gentle and sure. His cane-hand had gone lax, the cane just rubbing idly up and down over the marks it had made. Crowley's fingers crooked inside him, working him gently. "Come for me, angel." 

Aziraphale came. He hadn’t expected to, but somehow the combination of the new pressure inside him, the slow scrape of the cane across the sensitised flesh of his backside, and Crowley’s low command — it was too much. Aziraphale’s body responded to the order with seemingly no input from his brain. His arse lifted off the bed, legs tense and trembling, cock jerking beneath him. 

For what seemed a long time, he drifted. His ears were ringing pleasantly; all coherent thought had been stripped from him. Breathing seemed the only thing to do, and so he did it, let himself answer the most basic urges of his human corporation, and disregard the higher ones, the niggles in his mind which had now been shut away, as if in a locked box. He couldn't see Crowley, but he could  _ feel  _ him. He was safe. 

Eventually, he felt the bed shift beneath him, and then a touch to his shoulder. “It’s all right, darling, I’ve got you,” called Crowley’s voice from somewhere far away, and Aziraphale felt something soft wiping at his face. He tried to open his eyes. They were wet.

Aziraphale was hot all over, shimmering like stars, a kind of sparkling feeling above the burn through his skin. He was sobbing. He didn’t remember starting to cry, but now he couldn’t stop.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, struggling to breathe as a fresh cascade of tears overtook him. Crowley’s arms were around him then, the rough fabric of Crowley’s jeans under his chest, his face pressed to Crowley’s cool belly as he cried and cried. He felt Crowley’s fingers combing through his hair, a soothing circular pressure between his shoulder blades.

“You’re forgiven, love,” Crowley murmured, and the low tone vibrated through him. “I forgive you. I’ve always forgiven you. I know you were terrified. I know you loved me the only way you knew how.”

Crowley’s unimaginable kindness and generosity brought on a fresh wave of weeping, deep and wrenching. The soft cloth was back at his face. Aziraphale was erupting, an agony of guilt racing to the surface to be expiated in Crowley’s tender arms. He wanted to speak but had no breath, no words. There was only the heat of his body, the refreshing coolness of Crowley holding him, soothing him.

Aziraphale came to himself slowly. His throat was raw, Crowley’s shirt pressed damply to his mouth. He reached weakly to take the cloth -- one of his handkerchiefs, he realized dimly -- from Crowley’s hand and blew his nose into it. He couldn’t open his eyes yet. Breathing here in Crowley’s lap was enough.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, still petting his head. “You’re all cried out now. Nothing to do now but let me look after you.”

And now Aziraphale had to open his eyes, because he had to see Crowley’s beloved face. Aziraphale blinked until he could see clearly. Crowley was peering down at him, the gentlest smile lifting the corners of his mouth, his eyes golden all the way to their edges, pupils blown ovals of velvet black. A suggestion of worry lines creased his forehead.

“Love,” Aziraphale croaked, and then hiccuped. Giggled. Crowley laughed in delight and craned down to kiss his forehead.

“Did you want something?” he asked softly.

“Love you,” Aziraphale managed, still dreamy. He willed his hand to move, floating up to stroke Crowley’s forehead where the worry lines had disappeared and reappeared. Aziraphale tried to erase them with clumsy fingers.

“Mm, love you, pet,” Crowley said, catching his hand and kissing his fingers. “But just now I need you to move so I can see to your welts. I’ve broken the skin and you need tending. Here.” Crowley gently helped him slide off his lap and onto the bed. Aziraphale pined for Crowley’s body for what seemed a vast stretch of time though Crowley never left him, and then he felt something cool and soothing against the heated skin of his backside. “Afraid I made a bit of a mess of you.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale sighed, then groped for what he really meant. “You were wonderful.”

He felt Crowley’s hand squeeze his side for a moment as he said in a tone Aziraphale knew was far less breezy than it sounded, “Told you I’m a quick study. Now, this will probably sting, but then I’m reliably informed you like that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale laughed through the bite of the antiseptic, then felt Crowley smoothing something into his skin, and relished the gentle care of his hands. “Thank you,” he said, realizing he was beginning to become aware of the edges of the room, the press of the mattress under his belly, the ticking of the clock. “Crowley, thank you so much.”

Bandages were smoothed down, and then Crowley was draping a quilt over Aziraphale and lying down alongside him, facing him. Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s temple with one finger. “Thank you, too.”

“Me? What have I possibly done to earn your thanks?”

Crowley looked steadily into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I never would have been able to say those things to you, or even know that I needed to say them, if you hadn’t been brave enough to tell me that you wanted this.”

Aziraphale was still glowing with pleasure and release. His heart seemed to expand in his chest, as if it could shine through him like his halo. “I’m -- I’m glad I could help you...discover that.” He murmured.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Ah, I don’t really think that you’re a slut, you know --”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, I know, I know it, darling,” He pressed his cheek into Crowley’s hand. “You were just getting into it.”

A shy smile broke over Crowley’s face. “I was. I -- I liked it,” he said softly. “I liked giving you what you needed, and I also -- I just -- I liked it.”

Aziraphale could feel the way he was beaming now, his face straining to express the joy in his heart. “Oh, my love,” he said, “I could not be happier.”

**Author's Note:**

> From both of us, thanks to [juliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/) for beta; and from Laura, thanks to [everything_rhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everything_rhymes/) for many juicy thoughts about Aziraphale and D/s dynamics that informed this story.


End file.
